


Devil's Trill Sonata

by time_transfixed



Category: Town of Salem (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Hypocrisy, Implied Sexual Content, Jailor has issues, M/M, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-29
Updated: 2018-10-20
Packaged: 2019-07-18 22:37:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16128185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/time_transfixed/pseuds/time_transfixed
Summary: “You must be the Devil of Tartini’s dreams then,” the Serial Killer laughs mockingly, “to be able to play so well.”“Hardly.” He smiles wryly.”Forgive me, dear Jailor, if I find it hard to believe you.”





	1. Larghetto affettuoso

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Jailor was nothing more than a bright-eyed and inquisitive child once.

The Jailor’s memories of his childhood before he met the Mayor are faded, occasional splashes of color on black and white canvas. 

His mother sitting down with him, playing her violin while father (his real father) belts out nonsensical lyrics. They clash terribly with the somber and refined tunes of his mother, but it never fails to make his mother smile. 

Blood on the floor, his mother’s shrill screams, his father’s shaking hands. The gunshot ringing in his ears, once, and his mother stops screaming; twice, and his father stops shaking. 

They come, the Doctor and the Sheriff, rushing at the sound of the gunshot and the screams. They bat his hands away as he tries to reach for his mother’s cold hands, cover his eyes and bundle him away with sharp, terse commands. What’s wrong he wants to ask why won’t father answer me?

“ _Get the coroner_ ,” the Doctor barks at her harried looking assistant. 

“The Mayor too,” adds the Sheriff. 

He clings onto that violin, its shallow gouges and the ugly new bloodstain maring the polished wood. It’s the one thing they can’t pry from his hands, because it was mother’s prized possession, and he couldn’t just let them take it away like they were taking mother away. 

“I’m here,” the Mayor calls, hat crooked and clothes full of wrinkles, so unlike the perfect picture he normally paints. 

“Get out,” the Doctor waves a hand at him as she kneels over the body of his father while the Sheriff glances between them nervously, “there’s no adoring crowd for you to stand around and look pretty for.”

“No need to be so snappish Doctor, that _is_ one of my closest friends lying dead on the floor here; I damn well want to know what happened.” 

“I will cease being so snappish when I’m not forced to play the role of pathologist more than I’m actually called upon to treat illnesses.

And why is the child still here?” snaps the Doctor, “There’s no need for him to see this. Now that you’re here anyway, at least make yourself useful and remove the child from this awful sight.” 

“Come on,” the Mayor says gently to him, one hand resting hesitantly on his shoulder, “the Doctor will be able do more than we can at this point. Do you still like the tales of King Arthur and his knights?” 

The coroner comes at the crack of dawn, riding through the streets. _The Vigilante died last night...The Investigator died last night…_

The Mayor has the papers certifying him as his ward finalized the very next day. 

***

The first time he drags the bow tortuously over the taut strings and hears but a shadow of their achingly beautiful melodies, he knows he can’t stop. It’s okay if they never quite sound like the music his mother could coax from the same instrument, dissonant and screeching and hardly melodic as they are. 

The Mayor smiles at him over the top of the tax forms he’s sifting through, “If you’re lucky you won’t be chosen as an active member of the trials. I have no doubt you’ll make a fine musician one day.” 

“Why does the nice Doctor down the street hate you so?” he asks after a while, running through a shaky scale. “She doesn’t turn away patients, even those the other people tell me to stay away from.”

“Oh, child,” the Mayor pats his head, “when you’re older you’ll realize that people will call you evil for many reasons. Some of them might be true, but you’ll just have to do some evil things for the good of your town.” 

“But I don’t want to do evil things,” 

“And I hope you won’t have to. Now run along son. Give the violin a rest won’t you?” 

***

The Doctor visits him in the Mayor’s house, although by the time her visits become more of a commonality she politely refuses to enter the house and instead waits outside the door for him to get ready. 

He likes her house too, nowhere near as grandiose and seemingly empty as the Mayor’s though it is. On the contrary, it’s packed and homely, with the Doctor’s surgical tools and medicine kit pushed hastily to one side of the dinner table each time he comes over.

Her shelves are crammed full of dusty tomes and diagrams, discarded papers with doodled runes and hasty notes stained with coffee and tea strewn across the ground. There’s strange clothes of exotic colors and a selection of crystal balls and occultist material the Doctor keeps in the corner, though he knows by now not to broach that particular subject. 

“Why do you hate father?” he asks one day, when he sits there on her worn settee, contemplating how best he can the savor all of the Doctor’s impeccably made sugar cookies. 

“Does he ask you to call him father?” she replies sharply. 

“No, but I think it makes him happy when I do. But sometimes I catch him looking sad when I call him that. He thinks I don’t notice it, but he always gives it away when he suggests I practice the violin some more.” 

“Ah. Very clever of you, keeping the Mayor on his toes.” 

“You still haven’t answered my question,” he prompts again. 

“It was...a misunderstanding we had years ago,” the Doctor sighs. “Has anyone ever told you how much like your mother you are? Too inquisitive for your own good. It’ll get you killed someday if you’re not careful.” 

“I’ll be careful then,” he promises brightly, without a clue of what exactly he might be promising. 

***

He walks down familiar cobblestone roads, kicking loose stones as he goes, heavy volumes and textbooks on the founding of Salem cradled to his chest. The cicada chirps in the mild summer air and the late afternoon sun frowns down upon his back. The Mayor greets him at the door, still dressed in his robes of office. 

“We’re going to the town square today,” the Mayor tells him, an expression unreadable to the mind of a child crossing his face. “I think it’s time you understood what it means to be a member of this town.” 

One of the town’s periodic witch burnings. A woman, arms and legs bound firmly to the stake. Her dark brown hair mussed and wild, uncombed for days, clothes torn and ripped. Cuts oozing out blood in several places, including a split lip. A mob chanting, lonely townspeople lost in a sea of pitchforks and screaming. They march through the streets, fire flickering across their faces, shadows fleeing and growing, a roar and a whisper all at the same time. 

_Burn her_ the crowd sings _purge the evil from this town._

He clutches the Mayor’s hand more tightly, for fear of being swept away by the crowd. 

“We are gathered here,” the Mayor intones gravely, shouting over the townspeople and bringing the tension to a simmering halt, “to witness the execution of Alice ah,” (here he quints at the name scrawled on the paper in front of him), “ _Parker._ She has been accused and convicted of witchcraft, conspiracy against the town, and the murder of at least two known individuals. Alice Parker, do you have any last words?” 

“Fuck you,” Alice Parker spits out, voice dry and hoarse from disuse, but she sounds weary and bone-tried and her words have very little bite. The town seemingly moves in unison, surges forward and ignites the smouldering embers at the foot of the stake. _Burn her_ they chorus once more. 

“Don’t look away,” the Mayor whispers in his ear. “You need to see this.” 

And so he doesn’t look away. Not even when the fire catches on her skirts and starts to travel upwards, agonizingly slow. Then she starts screaming and what’s worse is when she’s begging for them to kill her quickly, just end it already. 

“Do you understand why she had to die?” the Mayor questions him intently as they walk home together. 

“No father,” he dares to say. “Why? Why did they have to burn her? Even if she was evil, why did she have to suffer?” 

“She was not a member of the town,” the Mayor sighs, “and sometimes it’s as simple as that. But in this case, she had murdered several people through the use of her own arcane forms of witchcraft. As for that spectacle of an execution, well, it’s the only way people can live sometimes. You’ll understand when you get older.” 

The Mayor did so love his “you’ll understand when you get older”s.

His father hesitates at the front door. “And it was a Witch like her who murdered your parents. I promise you though, we’ll find who was behind it and bring them to justice.” 

And if the Witch’s agonized screams follow him into his dreams that night, neither of them will say. The Mayor sits with him all night, half asleep himself while he plucks the strings of the violin and tries to make some semblance of music, something that will chase the horrors of reality away.


	2. Allegro moderato

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Jailor plays with fire, and the Serial Killer decides that he wants to live.

Seasons come and go, and when he comes of age he moves out of that empty house of the Mayor’s armed with his violin and bow. He plays well enough now, nowhere near good enough as the concertmasters and violin virtuosos of Europe certainly, but well enough. 

The trials start not with a bang but a whisper. People have been going missing. The baker down the street hurriedly packs his bags and boards up his windows. The old librarian goes out for a walk one day and never returns. The Doctor is called in more often than not to help perform the autopsies at the understaffed morgue. Rumors of Mafia activity on the outskirts of town dominate conversation, and he rarely sees the Mayor anymore, harried and drowning in work as he is. 

The Mafia string the Sheriff up in the town square in the early spring, leave their messages in blood and bright orange spray paint. We’re here, it says. 

Message received, loud and clear. 

***

“I could be doing more to help the town,” he protests hotly to the Mayor. “Being a musician won’t help us at all when the Mafia come to murder us all in our beds.” 

“I won’t put you more in the line of fire than you already are, being my former ward and all.” The Mayor insists stubbornly, clenching and unclenching his fists. 

“Father, please let me help. As you’ve said, I’m already a target by virtue of association, so allow me to take on a more active role within Salem.” 

Moments tick by, before the Mayor relents, “Alright, I suppose being a more clandestine actor rather than a more vocal one won’t increase your chances of being targeted by much, and giving you a more official position will at least stop you from going out and taking the law into your own hands.” 

Salem did still have a Jailor, ancient and hunched over as he is. He’s deaf in one ear and requires shouting for any noise to register in the other and still more often than not misplaces his keys and forgets where they are for weeks on end. Still, he maintains the prisons of Salem diligently, though they’ve long fallen out of use by the town, serving as an internment for petty criminals and thieves and debtors. 

He likes to tell his stories of what he did for Salem, of the Mafia members who died by his blade. Quaint, if a little past his expiration date. 

Salem is about to enter another crisis though, and she needs strong leadership in order to guide her through. 

Still, he cultivates his allies, brings smiles and coffee with him for the new Sheriff and the reclusive Spy, sits down with the old Lookout and entertains his old war stories. It’s another one of the Mayor’s old lessons - _get people to like you, make them more willing to trust you and give you information._

And if he goes out for a few drinks with the Investigator after a long days and helps out with the Doctor when she goes out to the outskirts of town to collect herbs, that’s not just cultivating alliances per se. 

In the end, it’s easy enough to become the new Jailor (far too easy, considering the influence such a role wields). By the time the old man finally retires, he’s already taken on most of his duties anyway, and it’s not like the Mayor had any legitimate objections. 

***

There’s something to be said, something about that intoxicating power that comes from the fact that any point in time he could execute the town member jailed for the night by virtue of nothing more than his own discretion. 

The Mayor has enough vested trust in him and his own judgement to sign off on his appointment as Jailor. He doesn’t plan on disappointing him or the town. 

He probably shouldn’t enjoy the way they sit straighter in the cells at the click of the gun, at every _click clack_ of his boots on the floor as much as he does, but that’s a minor issue. 

*** 

“I’m Jailor,” he announces to the town, “if we have any protectives that aren’t permanently assigned to the Mayor I’d appreciate them on me.” 

A role claim and most of the citizens are willing to whisper him information almost immediately. It’s fascinating, really. 

***

In his defense, it seemed a good enough idea at the time. 

The Serial Killer is easily found out, on the stand about to be hung by the tip off of the new replacement Sheriff. 

The murderer, like all others, pleads. “I can help the town, just tell me which people I should kill. I can be like a second Vigilante even, help you find and kill the Mafia.” 

He pleads, yet he retains his poise and confidence, oozes arrogance, as if he is not the one awaiting judgement on the stand, as if the town is blessed to have such a magnanimous offer being extended to them. 

The Jailor’s intrigued. 

“Innocent this one down,” he calls, over the hushed murmurs of the crowd, “let him prove his usefulness to the town. Vote up the other insofar silent members of this gathering.” 

The Mayor frowns at him, “Are you sure?” 

“Trust me. I’ll take full responsibility for anything that goes wrong.” 

He needs the Mayor on his side for this, because if such a public and outspoken leader of the town won’t vote in his favor then likely no one will. To his slight surprise, the Mayor nods hesitantly and announces his vote in favor of the Serial Killer’s innocence. 

“You’re playing with fire; you can’t trust men like that,” the Doctor shakes her head and casts her vote in favor of his hanging. She raises her voice to address the town. “Why should we let a Serial Killer live longer and allow him to whittle our numbers down further for the Mafia’s benefit?” 

“Because this way he can act as a Vigilante without the added burden of guilt. We can use his blade as a way to root out the other evils in hiding, and we are fully able of executing him if he steps out of line.” 

The Serial Killer’s voted down by a narrow margin, and the Jailor counts his blessings and hopes this doesn’t blow up in his face. 

“Stay home tonight,” he whispers to the pardoned man. 

He has half a mind to go for the gun he shouldn’t have when the other shows up at his house late at night. Perhaps the murderer had decided fuck it and was about to kill him and damn the consequences. 

“Why hello.” 

“I’m not going to be your dog,” the murderer snarls at him upfront, baring his teeth in a mockery of a placating smile. 

“I hate to break it to you, but that is kind of what you offered to be in return for being allowed down from the stand.” He probably shouldn’t be pushing the already riled up man in such a manner, particularly given that he’s armed to the teeth, but this was unexpectedly fun, and what was life without a little danger?

“I have terms, conditions, I won’t just willingly to submit to your orders.” 

“You act like you have a choice in the matter.” He takes a few steps closer. He’s shorter than the Serial Killer, which is rather unfortunate, but he lets the threat behind his words sink in. “Well, I suppose you have some small choice; it’s a matter of when you choose to die, really, either you can be a good dog and roll over now or you can be hanged in the town square tomorrow.” 

The Serial Killer, to his credit is very fast. He closes the distance between them rapidly, wraps one arm around his neck with the point of a knife mere centimeters from the Jailor’s throat. 

“Or I could kill you now, you smug bastard.” The other man’s breath is curiously hot against his ear, while the arm not holding the knife presses the Jailor further against his chest. 

“And die tomorrow? Will the oh-so-proud Serial Killer submit himself to grovel for his life at the Mayor’s feet once more?” The knife digs slightly into his skin, a thin line of red wrapped around his neck like a fine red ribbon. He forces himself to relax. Now is hardly the time to be hyperventilating or begging for his life like a fool. “Struck a nerve have I? My dear Serial Killer, don’t you want to live?” 

And it seems the answer is very much an emphatic _yes_ , because the knife disappears from his throat soon afterwards. 

“Go home,” the Jailor urges, wiping the blood off his neck, “enjoy the peace and quiet that doesn’t come from staying up all night to plot and execute a murder.” 

***

The Doctor never quite comes around to the idea of the Serial Killer helping them. She takes one look at the already fading cut on his neck and slaps him on the face. 

“Are you awake yet?” she asks. “Or do you need him to give you another more permanent injury for you to realize that sooner or later this’ll just blow up in your face? I’m genuinely concerned that the man will just snap one day, the fact that we’ll hang him be damned, yet you seem perfectly content with that idea.” 

“It’ll be awhile before he snaps then,” he promises. 

***

Funnily enough, the Serial Killer does end up being useful in hanging the Arsonist. It’s a simple enough conversation. 

“He’s immune.” 

“Really?” 

“I have no reason to lie, you know that.” 

Ah, there was the crack in his composure. Wasn’t that ironic, a Serial Killer and supposed madman deathly afraid of dying himself. 

“Very good then,” he says, “I suppose I’ll have to inform the Mayor then.” 

***

The townspeople, of course, can’t recognize something good if it bit them on the ass. 

“You have to stop,” the Doctor looks irrationally angry as she bears down on him, flanked hesitantly by the Escort and the Vigilante. . 

“I’m sorry?” 

He’s snapped his E string again. He’ll have to go digging for something to restring it with. 

“Playing around with the Serial Killer. Either lynch him or execute him, but it’s clear at this point that you’re just keeping him as your attack dog.” 

“Doctor,” he says, genuinely confused as to why she would think so, “the Serial Killer gives the town extra firepower to strike back against the Mafia. It’s perfectly sound, we can lynch him after we finish off all of the Mafia.” 

He didn’t understand all of the proclivities the town had against using the Serial Killer. After all, it wasn’t as if the Serial Killer could really do anything that he didn’t approve of and go after the Mayor or another member of the town. Well, not without signing his own death warrant that is.

“I’ll admit it; I’m not fond of the way that madman seems to listen only to you. And I’m sure I’m not the only one. God knows being the Jailor already gives you enough power within Salem.” 

Somehow it’s not just the Doctor. The Mayor brings it up late at night, when they’ve finished going over together who they think should be pushed to claim in the next few days. 

“I’ll get the Serial Killer to look into it,” he says offhandedly. 

“Yeah, about that,” the Mayor frowns, “when are you planning on getting rid of him?” 

“First you, now the Doctor,” he groans, rubbing his temples and making a big show of yawning. He really doesn’t want to have this tiresome conversation again. 

“I’ve heard...concerns about the Serial Killer being allowed to run around, even with a leash on.” 

“It’s fine,” he says, feeling like a broken record, “he’s helping town.” 

“That’s not the point,” the Mayor sighs, but drops the subject anyway. 

***

The Serial Killer’s starting to make it a regular habit of visiting him in the middle of the night after he’s done his ‘work.’ 

“I heard you’re a man of culture. Go on then, Jailor, play me a song on your fiddle,” he says, draping himself over two of the Jailor’s old dining chairs, “I think it’s the least you owe me.” 

“What kind of music would a Serial Killer appreciate?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. “Shall I play you a tune that you can hum along to while you dissect your victims?”

“Victims that you point me at, mind. I didn’t know that good, morally upstanding members of Salem didn’t have qualms about letting a criminal go free.” 

“Times have changed.”

Really, the town benefited from being able to force more claims. How was even a deranged murderer accusing him of not having the town’s best interests in mind when he did so? 

But he idly entertains the Serial Killer’s demands anyways, pulls a rather simple tune that the drunken patrons of _The Idiot Townie_ are exceedingly fond of. Hardly Bach or anything quite so refined or lofty, but that’s not quite what the Serial Killer asked for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Has anyone ever played in a town where NK gets outted D2 or D3 and promises to "help town" if they don't get lynched? Most towns seem to lynch them anyway but for the sake of this story let's pretend it actually works. 
> 
> Initially Jailor/Sk was very much skewed towards SK, but I changed that at the last minute, because I have no real skill for long term planning.


	3. Andante

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Salem hits a lull in the trials. The Mayor’s on a downward spiral, and the Jailor and the Serial Killer draw each other deeper and deeper into each other's’ orbit.

“Where do you live?” The Jailor’s told the Serial Killer to stay in for the night again, which of course means the man turns up to squeeze whatever entertainment he can out of mocking him. Still, there’s an opportunity here too. 

“Why the fuck would you want to know that?” 

“You’re right,” he decides, “that was a stupid and irrelevant question. You’re going to be moving in with me; you have a day to collect all of your necessary belongings.” 

On balance, this is a somewhat difficult decision. On the one hand, having the Serial Killer closer makes it easier to make sure that he kills the right people, and he has an easier time making sure he’s not conspiring with other Neutrals during the night. On the other hand, having a psychotic criminal in closer quarters means there’s more of a chance for him to be stabbed. But ah, that’s what the Doctor’s for yes? 

“No.” The Serial Killer rolls his eyes. “Much as I love spending time with you, I’d really rather not.” 

“Don’t make things difficult.” 

“ _Difficult?!?_ I stab everyone you point me at. Isn’t that enough for you? Or do you just not get enough of little ol’ me during our nighttime chats?” 

“A day.” He repeats. “Now if you’ll excuse me I have my own duties to attend to.” 

He jails a town member who claims Spy, a thin and lanky man who looks like he hasn’t seen the light of day in years, and there’s nothing too wrong with the information provided to say otherwise. 

The Serial Killer moves in with relatively little protest, as when the Jailor returns he’s already dumped his possessions on the Jailor’s bed. The Jailor marks it as a victory and chooses not to think of it as signing his own death warrant. 

***

“I haven’t seen you here in a while,” the Investigator’s voice makes him jump. He’s nursing a half empty glass that he’s barely looked at for the past hour, but the Investigator doesn’t need to know that. 

He needs his wits about him for this conversation. The town’s moving into a critical stage of hanging and executions, where most of the obvious evils have been eliminated. Now it’s time to ascertain where the Investigator’s loyalties lie. 

Normally he would be discussing this with the Mayor, but as of late he’s been...absent from town meetings, which is why the Jailor’s decided to meet the Investigator here. 

“Been busy since this whole mess with the Mafia started.” An obvious fact, bland and boring enough to be a conversation starter. 

“Haven’t we all?” The Investigator pulls up the chair opposite him. “But you know all about the results I’ve uncovered.” 

That’s true. The Investigator was one of the investigative claims who had been regularly updating him on their nightly results. 

“Yes, I was thinking we could discuss those results. I’ve been compiling a list of suspicious town members…” 

***  
He comes home late at night, trying to rub away the ache in the back of his neck, when he finds the Serial Killer sprawled idly on his bed. 

It’s really been too long a night to try to deal with him. Really, the Serial Killer was lucky he was pretty enough, with his well-cut hair and sharp cheekbones, otherwise the two of them would’ve been a much more disastrous combination. 

He sighs loudly. “Move.” 

The other man cracks an eye open. “Your bed is more comfortable.” 

“Fine, move over then.” There’s space on the bed for both of them, and he just wants to catch a decent amount of sleep before the next town meeting. 

He might’ve let his hand linger on the Serial Killer’s leg, where it wanders upwards almost subconsciously. The Serial Killer snarls abruptly, rolling away. 

“Tell me to stop and I’ll stop. I promise, whatever you say has no bearing on our working relationship.”

“My dear Jailor, that’s quite honestly one of the most awful ways anyone has ever tried to proposition me.” 

“I’m sure. How many of those who propositioned you did you end up killing then?” 

“All but one,” the Serial Killer leers, “it’s an occupational hazard.” 

***  
The Mafia’s numbers are dwindling. So are the Town’s for that matter. The Jailor remembers burying the Lookout not three days ago, a gloomy little funeral that coincides with the last few days of summer bleeding into autumn. 

The Mayor’s not making things any better. The Jailor remembers the diligent leader of the town from his youth, but it’s difficult to see him anywhere now when the Mayor shows up late to town meetings with crooked ties and slurred words and can barely even remember that the Investigator is confirmed or that the Sheriff might be suspicious. 

It’s downright painful watching him blunder his way through town meetings. 

***  
“You’re so beautiful like this, when you’re not in motion” the Serial Killer breathes, a smile playing upon his lips. It’s a quiet night, with nothing but the sound of rain pattering against the windows to keep them company. 

It serves to make him irrationally angry; perhaps it’s merely the leftover fatigue from trying to wrangle a role claim out of the previous night’s jailee. He slaps the murderer across the face. “Don’t do that.” 

“Do what?” The Serial Killer asks, the smile evaporating to be replaced with the more familiar look of annoyance and anger. 

“Don’t pretend that I’m another one of your victims that you’re leading on with all of your disgustingly romantic dialogue. I know who the fuck you are, that shit won’t work on me.” 

“Well, oh demanding Jailor, how shall I act for you? Shall I lie down quietly and let you have me?” 

“Go on,” the Jailor says. 

The Serial Killer sits there in shock for a few scant seconds, and the Jailor savors it just as much as he does the subsequent emotions that flit across his face, rage, anger, and that overwhelming look of helplessness as he at last complies with what the Jailor demands. 

“This is how I want you,” he hisses in the other man’s ear, “lying here, not by any force or restraint, but merely because I wish it and because it’s the only way your pathetic life can be dragged out.”

Killers can’t be allowed to run free. They have to be taught a lesson, put in their place, or they become arrogant. 

***  
The Serial Killer’s never been a morning person. That’s good, because the Jailor is. He rolls out of bed before even the coroner and marches groggily into the bathroom, washing his face clear of the lingering sleepiness. 

He will admit that he’s recently become concerned about how much he enjoys...toying with the Serial Killer. That feeling that here is this dangerous man who would gladly kill them all in their beds yet is forced to submit to his whims anyway because he does not want to die. 

He’s not-

Well he’s not like _them_ : the Serial Killer and his fellow Neutrals and non-town members, like the Witch who forced his father to shoot his mother with his own hands for her own amusement. Even if he...enjoys it, he doesn’t let it overwhelm him and dictate his decisions. And the Serial Killer at heart is a mentally unstable, absolutely unable to form permanent relationships by his own admission, so surely it wasn’t so bad…

Was it? 

***  
“Does the rest of the town know?” 

“What?” He asks sharply, pausing in the middle of one of Mendelssohn’s violin concertos. 

“Does the rest of the town know have any idea of how unbelievably cruel you are?” 

“Cruel?” The Jailor can’t help but feel the incredulousness sink into his voice. 

“You’re far too fond of manipulating others to do your bidding. Yet you subsist in your moral posturing; you think that because I am a Serial Killer and you are a Jailor that you are automatically the morally superior.” The Serial Killer sneers.

“Am I wrong? You murdered for sport before the town forced you in line. If I came off as ‘cruel’ then it was only because I’m trying to aid the town.” 

“Does that justify the fact that you make it your business to kidnap and imprison members of the town each night? And do I even want to know what goes on in your interrogations?” 

“The town,” the Jailor says firmly, “has my full and utmost loyalty. But sometimes, popular rule by the mob prevents them from making the right decisions; they merely need to be nudged in line a little. As for my interrogations, they are nothing but a means to gather further information and collect claims. Hardly anything illicit.” 

“I’m sure.” The Serial Killer’s infuriating little smirk persists long after the conversation has ended. The Jailor pushes it back to the dark corner of his mind where all the other little doubts sit gathering dust and returns to Mendelssohn. 

***  
“What’s that one then?” 

“Bach,” he says idly, still thinking about the Veteran claim. 

“A bit boring isn’t it? Wouldn’t have thought someone like you would enjoy playing the tunes of some dead men.”

“It’s a hobby,” he shrugs. “Someone like you” is another one of the Serial Killer’s idle little comments; it’s best merely to ignore it.

***  
“I could tell them, all the things their beloved Jailor says when he’s fucking me. What do you think they’ll say then?” 

“They wouldn’t believe you.” 

“Would they?” 

***  
The Mayor’s absent again. Perhaps he should pay him a visit soon; he clearly hasn’t been a very diligent son now has he? 

But in the meantime the Doctor approaches him after a meeting, as the people begin to disperse. He smiles and waves at her. 

“I’ve barely seen you outside of town meetings.” The Doctor looks unexpectedly livid as well, “I’m glad you’ve been so happy with your pet Serial Killer that you can’t even be bothered to poke your head out. Has he already moved in with you permanently?” 

And he stands there, sheepish and unable to come up with a good enough excuse. The Doctor is right, which is part of the reason why it’s so hard to do so. 

He opens his mouth to speak, and the Doctor scowls, the frown lines around her eyes deepening and walks away. 

Time to win back the good graces of the Doctor, he supposes.

The Jailor remembers distinctly the sugar cookies the Doctor made for him as a child. Though he has little experience with cooking beyond boiling things in water, theoretically they shouldn’t be that hard to make

The Serial Killer sidles up to him, wrapping his arms around his neck. There’s cold metal in his hands and some trace of gravel or sand still lingering in his hands. The Jailor’s not sure he wants to know what exactly it is. 

“Not now,” the Jailor growls in annoyance. “I’m in the middle of something.” 

“Ah, trying to make things up with the irritable Doctor?” 

“Shut up.” 

He knocks on the door to the Doctor’s house with his misshapen sweets, hoping that she hasn’t gone to the morgue or out to visit the graveyard as she still does sporadically. 

The door swings open. “Oh it’s you,” the Doctor huffs, “Come in then.” 

He steps in. The Doctor’s house hasn’t changed much in his youth, all of her cluttered medical tomes and the dull crystal balls strewn across the carpet. 

“Well?” She prompts. He takes in her tired eyes and messy hair hastily done in a bun. The shirt she’s wearing looks like it hasn’t been washed in a while; there’s a faded bloodstain trailing across her stomach that’ll likely never come out. 

“I tried making something for you,” he confesses, holding the plate of rock-hard cookies, “But I’m afraid I messed up. Do you think you might be able to tell you where I went wrong?” 

The Doctor sighs and the Jailor visibly sees her expression soften. She takes one of his cookies and bites into the corner, trying not to grimace at his no doubt poor flavoring choices. 

“Well, it could certainly use some improvement. I still have some leftover from a couple days ago if you want some.” 

And as he follows her into the kitchen, the Jailor knows he’s been forgiven. 

***  
The Doctor mentions offhandedly that she’s going to the outskirts of the town tomorrow to gather more herbs. No doubt her store has started to run low. Autumn is encroaching and on its heels winter follows, promising the common cold and whatever new disease has caught its fancy.

He knows that the farmer’s wife has given birth to a little girl, and the neighbor two doors down has an ailing son who might not survive the winter. It’s a bad time to be raising infant children, even without all the mess with the Mafia. 

“You still remember what each one looks like yes?” the Doctor throws over her shoulder. 

“Of course Doctor,” he laughs, “after the amount of times you exploited me as a boy to run errands for you? How could I forget?” 

“That’s not what I asked,” the Doctor rolls her eyes, “besides, a little manual labor was good for you, otherwise the Mayor would have succeeded in making you a pampered pet like him.” 

The Doctor has done half the work, bringing up the subject of the Mayor for him. “Father has been having...problems recently.”

“He’s hit the bottle harder than the Mafia hit the Lookout. Really, I should be glad that he didn’t slip immediately back into his bad habits when your father- your real father died, but at least he had the responsibility not to drink as much when he was raising a child.” The Doctor snorts derisively. 

“I’m sure the stress of the position and the way Salem has been falling into chaos have made that decision a little easier. Surely there’s something that could be done…” 

“Well, enough about the Mayor. I didn’t get out of the town boundaries just to hold another conversation about that man and his abysmal leadership skills.” And if the Doctor catches on to what he’s been hinting at, she says nothing. 

***  
It’s New Years Eve. 

The entire town puts aside their weapons and gathers in the town square. This is a newer tradition started by the Mayor a few years back; most of the members bring their own homemade goods, even though by now there’s snow on the ground and most of them are just waiting to catch hypothermia by the end of the night. 

Someone always inevitably brings booze.

He finds the Investigator and the Doctor among the crowd and they make their own drunken New Year’s resolutions that none of them will likely live to keep. 

“Hey,” he yells at the back of the Serial Killer’s head, “make a New Year’s resolution too.” 

“No.” The Serial Killer looks irritated, glancing around wildly as if looking to make an escape. 

But at this point he might have drunk more than is necessarily advisable for a man who rooms with and routinely sleeps with a psychotic criminal, which means he’s thrown all caution to the wind. In his defense, it’s cold even with the amount of layers he’s wearing and the alcohol was a way to stay warm. “Oh, no need to be such a stick in the mud, come on.” He grabs the Serial Killer by the shoulder. 

“You’re inviting _him_?” The Doctor wrinkles her nose in disgust, but it’s a testament to how tipsy she is that she doesn’t say anything else. 

“Nah,” the Investigator slaps his back, “the Jailor’s been getting more action than we have, of course he’d want to invite him.” 

He laughs nervously. 

“Slipping up, dear Jailor?” the Serial Killer turns around, eyes alight with that familiar look of mockery. “I hadn’t thought you’d be so stupid.”

“Make your New Year’s resolution and then kill me if you must.” 

The Doctor looks appalled but the Investigator snorts, slinging his arm around the Serial Killer. “So, how did our Jailor seduce a criminal like you?” 

“Well, I hardly see the point in making a resolution...or perhaps, yes, I do have one.” He steadfastly ignores the Investigator, shrugging off the arm with much disgust. “Would you like to guess what it is, dear Jailor?” 

“What is it? Kill three people by the end of July?” 

“Five.” 

“Save that nonsense for when I don’t have to listen to it,” the Doctor spares a glare for the Serial Killer and stabs her finger at him. “When I was your age I was busy working my ass off studying to become a Doctor, not making poor life choices by sleeping with a mentally unstable bastard.” 

The Jailor opens his mouth to respond, but the Investigator saves him the effort. 

“Hey, hey, Doctor, no need to ruin the man’s fun; good heavens knows opportunities for fun are scarcely found these days. Look! The fireworks are beginning.”

And sure enough, the first stream of color explodes in the sky, all red and silver and gold. A loud cheer rises up from the crowd and the Jailor feels himself cheering along with them, caught up in the collective euphoria of everyone around them. He even finds himself grinning at the Serial Killer, who remains stonily silent throughout the entire affair. 

“To a New Year,” shouts the Mayor, “and a new Salem!” 

The crowd roars enthusiastically back. 

***  
Stumbling home piss drunk with no one but the Serial Killer at his back seems a bad idea. A supremely bad idea. Well shit. There’s the epitaph of on his grave - dead because of a lapse into stupidity, like most men. 

They’d left the town square when the fireworks had long since ended and most of the town members began returning to their homes to catch some sleep, with the Mayor being ushered away by a harried looking Bodyguard. 

Which is why he’s busy checking behind his shoulder somewhat nervously. Clearly he needn’t be though, because a second later the Serial Killer’s tensing and pushing him to the side, even as he feels something whistle past his ear. 

Well, it seems the Mafia weren’t content to honor the unspoken truce of no-killing during the holiday season. 

“He’s mine to stab!” the Serial Killer roars at the fleeing assailant, keeping a painfully tight grip on the Jailor’s shoulder, “You think I’m going to let some faceless Mafia dog shoot him in the back of the head painlessly and let that be it?” 

By this point the whoever it is is long gone, the only indication that he was even here is the bullet lodged solidly in the wall. 

“Well, come on then,” he says, stumbling along, as if there hasn’t just been an attempt on his life. 

Then the Serial Killer kicks him in the back and he goes down flailing, unbalanced as he already is. He goes flying face first into the snow and mud, which isn’t a particularly dignified position at all. 

Well, this is it, he thinks. 

“I could kill you now,” the Serial Killer sounds fairly contemplative. “Maybe I could make it look like you’d slipped and broken your neck falling down. Certainly the Mayor might be wasted enough to believe it, and the Doctor’s not here to save your ass, now is she?” He presses a thin line on the back of the Jailor’s neck casually, almost as an afterthought. 

“But you’re far too drunk for me to truly enjoy this.” The Serial Killer says with some disgust. 

***  
The Serial Killer is deep in a heated conversation with a claimed Bodyguard, a man, who, from what he’s seen, prefers to say very little during town meetings, if he says anything at all. His hands are balled into fists at his sides, while his conversation partner glances periodically behind his shoulder. 

The Bodyguard says something, and the Serial Killer makes a threatening motion, starting forward. 

Very interesting. He files the information away for later, and closes the shades on the window.

***  
“What’s that one you’re fond of playing?” 

“Tartini. Devil’s Trill Sonata.” 

“Fun.” 

“Tartini thought he dreamed of the Devil offering to be his servant. And when he gave the Devil his violin, he played a composition so sublime that Tartini struggled for every waking moment afterwards to replicate it,”the Jailor says. He’s not sure why he’s bothering to tell the Serial Killer this; somehow he doubts that the other man would care about whatever Tartini dreamed. 

“Are you the Devil of Tartini’s dreams then?” The Serial Killer laughs mockingly. 

“Hardly.” 

“Forgive me, dear Jailor, if I find it hard to believe you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fuck ok this turned out a lot longer than I expected, and everything's still so choppy ugh. Erm, I very clearly can't write smut, even if it's mostly implied, very well. Or romance actually (whatever twisted kind of romance this is), which is why some of the SK/Jailor stuff probably reads super awkwardly. 
> 
> Ehhh whatever.


	4. Allegro Assai - Andante - Allegro Assai

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Jailor stages a minor coup, and the Serial Killer plots in the dark.

“Isn’t it interesting,” the Serial Killer begins, “that the Devil becomes the ultimate conveyor of beauty in this plane of existence, according to your little story? Tartini spends his entire life trying to chase the memory of music produced by the Devil himself.” 

“Rather blasphemous of you to say,” the Jailor raises an eyebrow. 

“I’m a Serial Killer, as you so often remind me,” the other deadpans. “Don’t lecture me on blasphemy, dear Jailor, when I know for a fact you don’t care about such things.” 

***  
”I don’t like he way looks at me,” the Mayor shouts, pointing at the Serial Killer loitering behind the Jailor, “and it’s about time he goes up to the stand.” 

“No.” The Jailor shakes his head, “We’re lynching the Mafioso that the Investigator found.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous; we’re not even sure that he’s a Mafioso, yet we know by his own admission that he is a Serial Killer. I won’t stand for him polluting Salem with his degeneracy any longer.” 

“Father, I think you ought to go home and get sober before returning.”

“I’m perfectly sober,” says the Mayor slowly, as if he’s still talking to a child.

“Go home,” snaps the Doctor, even if she hasn’t exactly been an advocate for the Serial Killer’s continued survival. “The town doesn’t need a Mayor who can’t even remember who’s claimed and who hasn’t.”

“Doctor,” the Mayor says placatingly, “there’s hardly any need to jeopardize our town’s survival because of an old grudge-” 

“Like hell there isn’t!” The Doctor bristles at his condescending tone, pushing past the Jailor to stand eye-to-eye with the Mayor. 

The Investigator glances at the Jailor, then adds, “Perhaps you ought to go rest; the town’s fine for today.”

And at last the Bodyguard hesitates and nods, whispers something in the Mayor’s ear and hustles the Mayor out of the town square. 

“Alright,” he says, in the ensuing silence, “let’s hang the Mafioso then.” 

***  
In the end, it proves rather easy to quietly usher the Mayor out of meetings. 

The Doctor proves to be a great help; her issue is that she’s never quite been able to look past whatever beef she has with the Mayor. 

The other townspeople are harder. The Mayor’s been well, the Mayor for many years in the town now, while his own position as Jailor is fairly tenuous, only a recently instated position. But there are those of similar mind to the Doctor, like the Vigilante or the Escort who still remember who bare their grievances with the Mayor from the previous instances of the trials with silent stares and balled fists. 

The Mayor’s been the face of a few terrible decisions and developments in Salem, and many of the townspeople just don’t see him as a trustworthy, personable figure anymore. 

The Investigator seems to implicitly trust him over the Mayor, which is interesting, and the rest of the Town fall in line. 

Perhaps he ought to feel some measure of guilt for fomenting resistance against the man who raised him. But Salem is in a time of chaos, and her leadership must be strong. It makes no sense to leave her in the hands of a drunkard.

Besides, no harm will come to the Mayor. All this does is remove an element of chaos from meetings; the Mayor will be updated on deaths and claims should the town ever be in such a dire situation as to need his voting power. 

***   
He nods to the ever-diligent Bodyguard pacing outside the Mayor’s house as he goes in. It’s the same old empty and grandiose house. The Mayor is hunched over the dining room table with a half empty bottle of vintage wine, eyes glassy and barely even looking at the discarded newspaper.

“What,” begins the Mayor slowly, “is the meaning of this child? Have you come to upset me as the leader of this town?”

“Not so drastic of an action, father,” he says softly. There’s no need for raised voices in this confrontation. “You told me once that one day I’d have to do evil things for the good of the town. Well this is one of them.”

“We are of the same alignment. I let you have this authority because I thought you would survive longer as a role that all the protectives would be watching over-” 

“And I have no intentions of usurping you at all. But the last thing Salem needs is for her leader to be more occupied with drinking himself into oblivion than the Mafia.” Rather harsh, but this is something the Mayor needs to hear. 

The Mayor’s eyes narrow, tipping the bottle sideways to eye the amount of liquor left. “I’ve hardly been drinking myself into oblivion, as you say. And I suppose the town clearly didn’t seem to need me leading them; you’ve done a fine job. Your father would’ve been proud to see his son leading the charge against crime in the city.” 

“Why?” He asks. “Does the booze make you feel any better?” 

The Mayor shrugs. “You’ll understand when you get older and win a couple of games. Sooner or later it’s just not enough anymore.” 

Seeing the half empty bottle suddenly makes him angry. He takes it and smashes it against the wall, the sound of glass shattering ringing in his ears. He hears the sound of the Bodyguard’s voice, asking if they’re all right, but he ignores it. 

“That’s still no excuse for lapsing into whatever habit this is. I expect the next time you show up to a town meeting you’ll be completely sober.” And he storms out of the house, in shame that this was the same man who had raised him. 

***  
The Serial Killer takes one look at him that night and bursts out laughing. 

It starts as small hiccups then becomes full blown hysterical cackling, all the while the Jailor stands there completely at a loss.

“What in the name of- What is so terribly amusing?” 

The Serial Killer waves him off. “Forget it, I doubt you’d get the joke.” 

The Jailor’s eye twitches in annoyance, but he lets it go anyway. 

***  
“You’ve been talking an awful lot lately with certain roles.” 

“No, dear Jailor, I will not act as your silent shadow during meetings. Of course I fucking talk.”

“Not what I was referring to, though I suppose it would be preferable if you would keep silent.” 

But it’s the numbers game now. They’ve hung the Mafioso which means there’s likely a Godfather and perhaps one other Mafia member at the maximum. The town’s majority is assured, so even if the Serial Killer is conspiring with other neutrals there’s no need to curb his fun just yet. 

***  
But now that he knows what he’s looking for, he catches the little furtive glances the Serial Killer sneaks towards certain members of the town when he thinks his back is turned. 

It’s not just the Bodyguard claim that he had seen him speaking to after the brief attempt on his life during the New Year’s Eve celebrations, there are other members that he speaks to, one of them a Survivor, the other a quiet town member that he had assumed to hold no important role at all. 

The Jailor rolls the idea of confronting the Serial Killer over it around in his head, but once again dismisses it; the town will keep their majority for a time longer, and if the murderer were made to see that if there was truly no chance for him to win he’d probably decide to completely discard the somewhat obedient routine he’s fallen into. 

***  
The coroner announces the death of the Mayor’s personal Bodyguard in the town square the next day, although he clearly needn’t be; the poor man’s cold corpse is splayed out across the town square like a morbid throw rug. 

The Mayor stays home. That’s alright; the town looks to him anyway for guidance that he’s quite happy to give. 

***  
“Baaaa,” cackles the Serial Killer, miming the sound of a sheep. 

“Rather childish of you isn’t it?” 

“Not at all. I firmly stand by it as a most accurate representation of events.” 

***  
“Hold still,” the Jailor whispers. It seems a crime to say anything much louder than a whisper here, in the darkness of the bedroom, as if something louder will immortalize the moment into more than just a slight...problem that the Jailor periodically indulges in, a cold awakening to the staggering implications of his relations with the Serial Killer.

The Serial Killer makes a muffled sound of protest.

He pats the other’s cheek, securing the knot on the back of the Serial Killer’s head. “Shh. Isn’t it better this way? Now neither of us have to listen to your incredibly tiresome comments.”

He should’ve had this idea earlier. The Serial Killer, though obedient in his actions, stings and bites with his words instead. The knotted scarf between his lips is a much needed improvement.

His hand hovers briefly over the blindfold, before he decides against it. He wants to savor the look of desperate rage in the Serial Killer’s eyes tonight.

“Maybe,” he muses, “I should keep you like this. It would certainly save me a few headaches, and I’m sure the townspeople would rest a little easier knowing the Serial Killer was...occupied.”

The Serial Killer struggles weakly against harsh metal cuffs, glaring up at him with a raw intensity that the Jailor hadn’t seen since he had been on the stand, wordless snarls clawing their way up his throat. Those cuffs will probably leave marks in the morning, especially with the amount of moving the Serial Killer is doing, and he’s locked them in a bit tighter than necessary. But that’s of little consequence.

There would be time in the morning to wash away the uneasy feeling in the back of the brain, but for now, he checks the fastening of the cuffs and moves forwards with his plans for the night.

***  
“The Investigator is visiting today. Try to keep the noise to a minimum.” 

“The idiot that can’t tell a Werewolf from a Sheriff? Why _do_ you insist on keeping him around? Does his sycophantic fawning make you feel better about yourself?” 

“His skills in investigation might be a little...lacking, but he remains a loyal member of the town.” 

The Serial Killer snorts and rolls over, rubbing the angry raw patches on his wrists absentmindedly. “I’m going back to sleep then; you’re far too unjustifiably demanding in the early hours of the morning. Holler if you need me. Or on second thought, don’t.”

***  
It’s a crisp morning, sporadic patches of snow dotting the ground and reflecting the weak glare of the sun. He’s called a town meeting again; the town is close to finally finding all of the Mafia and he needs more evidence. 

One of them asks where the Mayor is. He initially dismisses the idea. The town has been fine without him; truthfully perhaps better now that there weren’t voices of opposition splitting the votes and preventing them from maximizing their voting power. But as the votes stall and the town begins to murmur as no leads are brought up, he adjourns the meeting early. 

He knocks on the door to the Mayor’s house, noting the chipping of the paint in some places and the wilting of some of the plants in the garden. Perhaps he hadn’t been outside in a while to notice, but there should’ve been someone stopping by to maintain the gardens. 

He frowns when there’s no response, and knocks again. 

The Serial Killer taps his foot impatiently by his side. “Alright Jailor, we’ve come here, let you play the dutiful son. Can we go now?”

“Quiet.” The Jailor hisses through clenched teeth. He doesn’t know why he bothered to let the Serial Killer tag along; he should’ve just let him go have some fun with one of the unclaimed neutrals. 

“Father, I swear, if you’re passed out drunk in there-”

“Oh for fuck’s sake.” The Serial Killer shoves him aside. “Mayor, if you’re in there, the town’s very important Jailor would like to speak to you. If you don’t open up we will be forced to break your fancy door down. Got it?”

He then promptly leans a shoulder against the door and shoves it in. To his surprise, the door opens with little force, swinging wide open, and he comes crashing forward. 

“Fuck,” says the Serial Killer, wrinkling his nose, hand held out to steady himself. “Somebody forgot to drag their kill out where we could see it.” 

There, draped over the same chair that the Jailor had seen him sitting not a week prior is the Mayor’s day old corpse. There’s dark red caked on his pristine sleeves and, judging from the smell, the rot’s already settled in. There’s the quiet buzz of flies in the background, hovering around the corpse with grotesque delight. The window in the back of the house is slightly ajar, which is where all the flies have been coming in from, and he nearly trips on a discarded half empty mug of some unidentifiable liquid

The Jailor feels that horrible feeling of guilt crawl up his spine, something he hasn’t felt this strongly since he was a child caught with one hand in the cookie jar. 

***  
The Jailor cannot shake off the feeling that the Mayor’s funeral is almost a mockery of the solemnity that should normally be observed at such events.

The townspeople give their empty speeches and prayers, as they lower the casket into the ground with the sound of the finality of death. The Jailor’s very glad that they chose to leave the casket’s lid closed, if only because the corpse is already half decomposed, and he would much rather not have the dead eyes of the Mayor following him as he delivers his eulogy. 

“This is a great tragedy for Salem. The Mayor was a longstanding member of the town, that led our town faithfully through many challenges and dark times.” It’s much harder addressing the crowd out in the open, when all eyes are on him, looking towards him for reassurance. He might’ve given the Mayor too little credit for the role he played as a figurehead and leader. 

The Doctor shows up long enough to pay her respects and then leaves early. 

The Serial Killer says nothing for the entire affair. The Jailor has the uncomfortable feeling that he’s holding back laughter. 

***  
“There’s been some nasty rumors flying around that you ordered the Serial Killer to go after the Mayor in order to permanently secure your position.” The Jailor is starting to prefer the quietness of the Investigator’s home to the endless sea of noise of the The Idiot Townie. At least here he isn’t likely to be accosted by the townspeople with their empty apologies and condolences. 

“That’s absolutely ridiculous. The murder weapon was obviously a gun, and the townspeople should be well acquainted with how the Serial Killer operates by now.” 

“Well, rumor has it that you had him disguise it to look like a Mafia murder. And that’s why it took so long for us to even realize he was dead.” 

“I’m not so cold-blooded as to murder the man who raised me!” Just when the Jailor thinks he’s seen it all, the townspeople reach a new level of gullibility. This is exactly why the rule of the mob was never effective. 

The Investigator raises his hands in a placating gesture. “Of course you didn’t have anything to do with it. I’m just repeating what I’ve been hearing around town.” 

“Still, it’s concerning how much of a hold the Mafia has on the minds of our citizens. How quickly can you find out who’s been spreading all of this nonsense?” 

“I’ll be on it, shouldn’t take very long.” The Investigator promises. 

***  
This is a relatively new game. 

He smirks at the Serial Killer, gently tracing his left collarbone. The muscles in his neck quaver under his fingers, quick and sporadic spasms that betray the tenseness of their owner. 

The Serial Killer pulls his lips back and bares his teeth at him in what little he can do, biting down harder on the knife between his teeth as the Jailor begins using his mouth. 

The Serial Killer’s wrists are held above him, bound only symbolically with the discarded string of the violin; this is the Jailor’s favorite part of the set piece. It is both simultaneously no restraint at all and all the restraint in the world. All the Serial Killer has to do is pull slightly and the string unravels; the difficulty lies in remaining stationary enough that it doesn’t loosen. 

“Try not to move so much,” he says aloud. “It might make it easier.” 

The Serial Killer rolls in his eyes in an ever familiar gesture and glares at him from his position against the wall. 

The Jailor shrugs instead; the man is really much more handsome when he can’t use that acidic tongue of his. “Have it your way then.”

***  
“Was it my fault?” 

“Oh yes, Jailor, it was completely your fault,” the Serial Killer bites out. “You unseated the incompetent fool and let the townspeople forget about him. Really, I should be surprised the Mafia even bothered; it’s obvious that he’s not the one leading the lynch on their members.” 

“That was a rhetorical question; I didn’t expect a response.” 

“Dear Jailor, there’s no one in this town who knows your vices and character flaws as well as I do. It’s rather redundant for you to feign guilt in the company of the two of us; there’s nobody to act contrite to.” 

“I’m not _pretending_ -”

“Sure you aren’t.” The Serial Killer waves a hand dismissively “Admit it, deep down there’s a part of you that’s rather pleased that there’s nobody else left to challenge your position as the leader of the town. Look at you, you’ve gone about your merry way just the same as you would have otherwise. Nothing’s changed, not really.” 

“I’m not like you.” Who was the Serial Killer to so boldly claim that he knew him better than anyone, that he was not truly sorry about the death of the man who had raised him since childhood?

The Serial Killer shrugs. “Whatever you say.” 

***  
“Do you ever wonder what things would be like if you weren’t a Serial Killer?” 

“No. I find little use in indulging in what-could-have-beens. And there’s nothing that can replace the thrill of killing, dear Jailor.”

“I suppose you wouldn’t.”

***  
“Where are you going in such a rush?”

“I have someone’s execution to attend to,” the Jailor says absently, fumbling around for his coat. 

The Serial Killer wraps his arms casually around the Jailor’s neck “Oh, I’m afraid I can’t let you do that.” 

The Jailor makes a half-hearted attempt at swatting away the killer’s hands. “Not now.” 

“I disagree; I think now’s precisely the right time.” And then suddenly the Serial Killer is slipping a thin line of wire around his throat, pulling it back with a gleeful relish. He scrabbles for air, his hands clawing at his throat. The Serial Killer pries one hand forcefully off and pins it to the mattress with his knife, a casual stab that sends blood spraying, and the Jailor hears a half mangled scream escape his throat, a scream that he doesn’t have the breath for. 

“None of that, dear Jailor,” he laughs softly. “So the Devil himself bleeds as red as any other. But then I suppose, everyone bleeds the same.” 

“I do hope you appreciate this,” he says. The Jailor can feel the Serial Killer’s breath against his ear, rapid and quick in its intensity. “I don’t normally make my killings this...intimate but for you I had to make a very big exception. 

There’s a reason I went to the trouble of telling that arrogant prick of a Godfather to keep his hands off of this matter; I couldn’t just let somebody else do the honors. I even went the trouble of using one of your violin strings; I’d love it if someone would fully appreciate my work.” 

The Jailor makes a horrible retching sound in the back of his throat as the Serial Killer tightens the string once more.

“Good night,” sing-songs the Serial Killer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I regret everything. 
> 
> The ending seems a bit too abrupt and with a lack of stabbing, but I wrote like three different endings for this story and didn't really like any of them so here you go, here's the one I liked the most :/ Now I can't even make a joke about SK stabbing on the haters. 
> 
> Don't ask me about certain...parts, I don't know either :/


End file.
